February 18,2026, Year A, Ash Wednesday

Matthew 6:1-6; 16-22, Psalm 103, 2 Corinthians 5:20-6:10

Today is Ash Wednesday, the beginning of Lent. Lent is a forty-day season of preparation for Easter, echoing our Lord's forty days in the wilderness. It is a penitential season—not because God delights in our misery, but because honest reckoning with our sin prepares us to receive the joy of the resurrection. We observe Lent as a time of fasting, prayer, almsgiving, and self-examination, that we might turn from our false securities and turn toward Christ afresh.

Our gospel reading is from the Sermon on the Mount, Matthew 6:1-6, 16-22, found on page _________ of our pew Bibles, and will serve as our primary text for this morning. As we work through it, we will also be drawing on our psalm and epistle readings, which weave together beautifully with its themes. This gospel reading could not be more fitting for such a day and the beginning of this season. In Matthew 6, Jesus addresses three core spiritual disciplines: giving, praying, and fasting. But his concern is not whether we practice these disciplines. His concern is why.

Jesus begins with a warning in verse 1: "Beware of practicing your righteousness before other people in order to be seen by them, for then you will have no reward from your Father who is in heaven" (Matthew 6:1, ESV). Notice that word—"practicing". Jesus assumes his disciples will be practicing righteous. The question is whether it's genuine or performative. That is the question we should be asking ourselves throughout Lent.

He then moves through the three disciplines with surgical precision. When we give to the needy, we must not announce it like the hypocrites do. When we pray, we must not stand on street corners performing for an audience. When we fast, we must not put on a show of pious suffering. In each case, the same indictment in verses 2, 5, and 16: "They have received their reward" (Matthew 6:2, 5, 16, ESV).

That phrase ought to chill us. They have already been paid in full. They sought human applause, and they got it. Transaction complete. No heavenly reward remains because they already cashed their check.

But here is where Jesus' teaching cuts even deeper. The problem isn't just outward hypocrisy. It's the heart's orientation. Are we seeking the approval of men or the approval of God? Are we living for an audience of thousands or an audience of One?

Now, before we go further, we need to address what might seem like an obvious contradiction. In just a few minutes, many of us will come forward to receive ashes on our foreheads—a very public, very visible mark. And we'll hear the words, "Remember that you are dust, and to dust you shall return." Isn't this exactly what Jesus just condemned? Aren't we being hypocrites, putting our piety on display for everyone to see?

This is a fair question, and it deserves a careful answer. The difference is not in the visibility of the act, but in its purpose and our motivation. Jesus isn't condemning public worship or corporate spiritual discipline. After all, he worshiped publicly in the synagogue. He prayed the great prayers of Israel aloud with others. He celebrated Passover with his disciples. The earliest Christians gathered publicly to break bread and pray.

What Jesus condemns is doing these things in order to be seen—performing acts of piety to cultivate a reputation for holiness. The ashes we receive today are not a badge of our superior devotion. They are a public acknowledgment of a truth we all share: we are dust. Fragile. Mortal. Sinners in desperate need of mercy.

The imposition of ashes is the church's corporate confession. It's the opposite of spiritual pride. We're not saying, "Look how holy we are." We're saying, "Look how broken we are. Look how much we need a Savior." There's a profound humility in standing before God and one another to have the mark of death placed on our foreheads. It strips away our pretense. It levels the ground at the foot of the cross.

Moreover, the ashes are not primarily for the benefit of those who see them. They are a reminder to us throughout the day. Every time we catch a glimpse of ourselves in a mirror or a car window, we'll remember: I am dust. My life is fleeting. I need to number my days and make them count for eternity. The ashes keep calling us back to reality, to sobriety, to repentance.

So yes, let us receive the ashes. And, just like Communion, we must receive them with the right heart—not as a performance, but as a proclamation of truth. And if someone asks us about the mark on our foreheads today, let us not use it as an opportunity to boast about our religiosity. Let us use it to point them to the God who remembers that we are dust, yet loves us with an everlasting love.

Lent is the season when we stop pretending and let our hearts be laid bare before God. This is uncomfortable work. Most of us have constructed elaborate defenses around our true motivations. We tell ourselves we give generously because we care about the poor—and maybe we do. But do we also give because we like being known as generous? We pray faithfully—but do we secretly hope others notice our devotion? We discipline ourselves—but is it for holiness or for admiration?

Jesus calls us to a different way in verses 3-4: "But when you give to the needy, do not let your left hand know what your right hand is doing, so that your giving may be in secret. And your Father who sees in secret will reward you" (Matthew 6:3-4, ESV). The same pattern holds for prayer and fasting. Secret acts. A Father who sees in secret. A reward that is real, but hidden from public view.

This is profoundly countercultural. We live in an age of curated lives, where every good deed can be photographed and posted. Every spiritual milestone can become content. Every act of service can be leveraged for our personal brand. Jesus says: Stop performing. Our Father already sees us.

Now, let's connect this to our psalm for today. The ACNA lectionary appoints Psalm 103, and there is wisdom in that choice. Psalm 103 begins: "Bless the LORD, O my soul, and all that is within me, bless his holy name!" (Psalm 103:1, ESV). It continues: "The LORD is merciful and gracious, slow to anger and abounding in steadfast love" (Psalm 103:8, ESV).

Here is the stunning reality of Ash Wednesday. Yes, we come to acknowledge our sin. Yes, we receive ashes as a reminder of our mortality. But we do not come to grovel before a reluctant deity. We come to a Father who is "merciful and gracious". A Father who sees us in secret and loves us anyway.

Psalm 103 declares: "He does not deal with us according to our sins, nor repay us according to our iniquities. For as high as the heavens are above the earth, so great is his steadfast love toward those who fear him" (Psalm 103:10-11, ESV). This is the God we approach in Lent. Not a taskmaster keeping score, but a Father who removes our transgressions "as far as the east is from the west" (Psalm 103:12, ESV).

And then comes this crucial verse: "As a father shows compassion to his children, so the LORD shows compassion to those who fear him. For he knows our frame; he remembers that we are dust" (Psalm 103:13-14, ESV). There it is again—dust. The same word we'll hear in the imposition of ashes. God remembers that we are dust. He knows our limitations, our frailty, our weakness. And rather than despising us for it, he shows us compassion.

Do we see the connection? In Matthew 6, Jesus tells us that God sees in secret. In Psalm 103, we learn what he sees when he looks at us: not just our sin, but his own great mercy at work. He sees us as we truly are—dust, frail, prone to wander—and yet he shows steadfast love to those who are in Christ Jesus.

This is why Lent is not ultimately about self-improvement or earning God's favor. It is about laying down our pretenses and receiving what we could never earn. Paul captures this in our epistle reading: "We implore you on behalf of Christ, be reconciled to God. For our sake he made him to be sin who knew no sin, so that in him we might become the righteousness of God" (2 Corinthians 5:20b-21, ESV).

Be reconciled to God. Not through spectacular acts of piety, but through Christ, who became sin for us. This is the great exchange: our sin for his righteousness. Our ashes for his crown. Our death for his life.

So what does this mean for how we observe Lent? Let us be specific and practical about the three disciplines Jesus addresses.

First, giving. This Lent, let us consider taking on a specific act of generosity—but doing it secretly. Maybe there's someone in our church or community facing financial hardship. We could give them cash in an unmarked envelope slipped under their door. Or we could set aside money each week to give to a ministry or missionary, but not tell anyone about it. Perhaps the Alenskis or Omar missionary families? There are ways to contribute to them in the narthex. Let God be our only witness. The point is not the amount—it's the posture of our hearts. Are we giving to be seen, or giving in secret to the Father who sees?

Second, prayer. Jesus says in verse 6: "When you pray, go into your room and shut the door and pray to your Father who is in secret" (Matthew 6:6, ESV). This Lent, let us commit to a daily time of private prayer. Maybe it's first thing in the morning before anyone else is awake. Maybe it's in our cars during lunch. Let us each find a place where we can be alone with God—no performance, no audience, just us and him. We can use the Daily Office from our Prayer Book if we need structure. We can pray the Psalms. Confess our sins. Intercede for others. But let us do it in secret, where our Father sees.

Third, fasting. Jesus assumes his disciples will fast in verse 16: "When you fast…" (Matthew 6:16, ESV). Fasting is the voluntary abstinence from something good in order to focus on something better. Traditionally, this means food. Let us consider fasting from one meal a day or a week during Lent—perhaps lunch on Fridays. We can use that time to pray instead of eat. Let us feel our hunger as a reminder of our deeper hunger for God.

Here's a question to examine our motivations. Is fasting to lose weight during Lent acceptable? Will that give us a reward here or in heaven? The supposition is that it is just a "diet during Lent" for a reward we will receive now. Could it be glorifying God? Yes, so long as our primary focus is recognizing our hunger for God, with weight loss not being the main objective. Perhaps we should stay off the scale during Lent if we are fasting.

But fasting can take other forms too. Maybe we need to fast from social media, from Netflix, from constant noise and distraction. We should give up something that has a grip on us—not to prove how strong we are, but to create space for God to work. And when we fast, we must not advertise it. We must not complain about how hungry we are or how hard it is. "When you fast, anoint your head and wash your face, that your fasting may not be seen by others but by your Father who is in secret" (Matthew 6:17-18, ESV). In other words, we go about our day normally. Let the sacrifice be between us and God alone.

Jesus concludes this section with a word about treasure in verses 19-21: "Do not lay up for yourselves treasures on earth, where moth and rust destroy and where thieves break in and steal, but lay up for yourselves treasures in heaven, where neither moth nor rust destroys and where thieves do not break in and steal. For where your treasure is, there your heart will be also" (Matthew 6:19-21, ESV).

Where is our treasure? Is it in the approval of others? In our reputation for holiness? In the appearance of righteousness? Is it more money in the bank? Those treasures corrode. They fade. Or is our treasure hidden with Christ, secure and eternal?

Lent is the season when we audit our hearts. Where have we been living for earthly applause? Where have we substituted performance for intimacy with God? Where have we sought rewards that rust instead of rewards that last?

And here is the grace: even as we uncover these ugly truths about ourselves, we do so in the presence of a God who is merciful and gracious, slow to anger and abounding in steadfast love. He remembers that we are dust. And he chooses to love his children anyway.

In a few moments, we'll have the opportunity to come forward and receive the imposition of ashes. We'll feel the grit of burnt palm branches on our foreheads. We'll hear the ancient words: "Remember that you are dust, and to dust you shall return." Let us receive them as truth. We are dust. But we are dust that God has breathed life into. Dust that he loves. Dust that he died to redeem.

May this Lent be a season of honest reckoning. May we see the darkness in our own hearts—not to despair, but to drive us toward the light. May we practice our righteousness in secret, before the Father who sees and loves us. May we give, and pray, and fast not for show, but for intimacy with the God who already knows us fully. And may we treasure Christ above all, knowing that in him, we have a righteousness we could never manufacture and a reward we could never earn.

In the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit. Amen.